it may have been only the leaping flame upon the hearth, but it seemed to me that colour rose to the old brown face, and that light burned in the coal-black eyes. an instant only, and his aspect was hard and grim. he did not offer his hand to mr. bradbury or me; he seemed still to prop himself upon the arms of his chair; he said, in tones curiously rich and full for so old a man, “you wrote to me, bradbury, and charles answered you at my dictation that i would receive you.”
“well, we are here, sir,” said mr. bradbury, easily.
“and you are here! you know me well enough, mr. bradbury, to understand my wishes. i do not welcome your visit. i felt bound only to receive you and hear you. why have you come?”
mr. bradbury, standing forward, sought his snuff-box, and made play with it; the cold jewels shining white upon his fingers, his eyes hard and keen as his diamonds. “mr. craike,” p. 130he said, “our interview with you should surely be in private. is there any need for thrale to remain?”
“set chairs, thrale, and i’ll ring for you—if i need you. is mr. charles in the house?”
“no, sir,” answered thrale, his malignant look marking resentment against mr. bradbury. “he’s abroad.”
“if he return, tell him to come to my room. set chairs—damn you! set chairs! don’t stand there like a candle in a draught. like to be blown out any minute—eh, bradbury, eh?” and passed from sudden passion to loud laughter.
as thrale set chairs by the fire for mr. bradbury and me, i found the opportunity to look about the room. it was lit by those green panes dully for the lateness of the afternoon, and by the leaping flame. it had been a rich, ornate room; i saw dull gold and faded colours in some sombre painting upon the ceiling; faces on the walls—portraits of gloomy folks much of the aspect of the grim old man looking across the green-veined marble hearth at us. a panelled room with heavy tapestries corrupt with moth and grime, with heavy furniture dark with age, a huge four-poster with black silken curtains, black presses, black table; pale gleam of crystal and silver upon a sideboard, old books in a high p. 131case. only a persian carpet by my grandfather’s chair and his garish gown and gems lent rich colour to the room; all else was gloomy, tarnished, faded. gloom—surely over all the house was gloom; surely the wind beating on the windows, moaning and sighing, was burdened with a tale of sins; surely a sense of evil brooded in this room,—where sat old edward craike to think of life drawing near to death,—to think, maybe, of punishment for years of sinning. for on the face was scored a record of old sins and dead passions; its aspect was evil; the lips were merciless; the brooding eyes, from the sudden blazing wrath at thrale, could burn with an unholy fire. flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood,—i could feel for this old broken man no pity, no affection. i found myself conjecturing only that these eyes would face death—surely so near him—courageously, as an intrepid voyager’s looking on uncharted seas.
thrale, stepping noiselessly, withdrew.
mr. bradbury leaned forward swiftly. “now, sir,” he said, “i ask you to listen to me patiently.”
“go on, bradbury!”
“i ask you to remember your affection for your son richard—such affection as you have not felt for any other being.”
he said heavily, “why recall the past, p. 132bradbury? what is the past but a voyage i have made, and come from with an empty hold?”
“ay, surely,” assented mr. bradbury, taking snuff and smiling. “you have a gift of melancholy, mr. craike.”
“bradbury, you speak to me as no man dares to speak.”
“you permit me,” said mr. bradbury quietly, “to speak frankly to you, knowing me your friend, mr. craike, and honest in my dealings with you. as your friend—as your son’s friend—i am here. mr. craike, you’ve sailed over the world in your day; you’ve suffered shipwreck; you’ve been cast away. what would you not have given—even you—to have had with you upon the desert isle you’ve told me of, one of your kind—one of your blood?”
“allegory, bradbury?” he said, impassively.
“allegory, surely! seeing you sitting here alone—knowing you all these days alone, as surely as were you on your desert isle, longing—as any human being must long—for kith and kin, for friend, at least for one of whose companionship—affection even—you might be assured.”
“you mean this lad here?” in unaltered tone.
“who else? look at this lad! frame a p. 133picture in your mind, mr. craike—your son richard’s—set richard’s likeness and this boy’s side by side. and will you say that this lad seated here is not, feature for feature, colour of eyes and hair and skin, in body, manner—your son, richard?”
my grandfather said slowly, “richard was as all our race. the lad is richard look for look. what is it to me, bradbury? my son was never wed.”
i felt my cheeks burn; ere mr. bradbury might restrain me, i started up, and facing the old man, cried out, “and there you lie! if i be the son of richard craike—and that i be i care not—no man shall question or deny my parents’ honour, take their name lightly. you hear me,—you lie!”
he did not stir in his chair; his aspect was unchanged save that the light seemed to burn up in his old eyes. he said coolly, “the lad is richard’s son, bradbury.”
“and rightly resentful of your words, sir,” cried mr. bradbury, snapping his snuff-box.
“bradbury, don’t try me too far. you are at liberty to go at once—with richard’s son.”
“mr. craike,” said mr. bradbury, leaning forward in his chair, and looking intently at my grandfather, “knowing you—your sense of p. 134justice—i dare to tell you, as the lad has told you, that you lie. your son was wedded nineteen years back to mary howe—you will recall her.”
“surely—serving-woman to mrs. charles.”
“he was wedded to her in london, after charles and his wife, understanding richard’s passion for her, had driven her from this house. their enmity pursued her—from house to house, employment to employment. she was in london—destitute, nigh starving—when richard, returning from the continent, sought and found her. he married her in london—nineteen years since, mr. craike, nineteen years since. he lived for several years with her in london under her name of howe, earning his living honestly, not communicating with you and taking nothing from you. he disappeared ten years or so back. mr. craike, the agency that robbed you of your son; that took him from his wife and child, that shipped him out of england or hid his body in the ground—for whether he be alive or dead i cannot tell, even as you—i do believe to be the active enmity of your son charles—his jealousy of richard craike, his elder brother and your heir.”
and now at last i saw the cruel lips part; and now i heard the old man gasp and mutter to himself; i saw the red flash upon his shaking p. 135hands; i saw his eyes burn up, and flame from bradbury to me.
“mr. craike,” mr. bradbury proceeded, “the proofs of this marriage—of the boy’s legitimacy—are in my hands.”
“you have these proofs with you?”
“mr. craike, would i be such a fool as to bring them here? would mrs. richard craike entrust them to me, coming to this house? we have them and we hold them.”
“fearing me?”
“no! fearing your son charles. with cause, sir, with bitter cause! and hear this, sir, we should have been here days since—would have been—but for your son. his agents waylay our coach; his agents carry off the boy and gaol him in the stone house you may know of. ay, and would have shipped him overseas with blunt—smuggler, freebooter—what is he? all this, all this,—to keep the lad from you, sir, while you sit by your fire alone—alone!”
“you’ve proof of this? i have no knowledge of any plot?”
“proof! am i fool or trickster, mr. craike?”
“i do not think you fool or trickster, bradbury.”
“look on this boy: his likeness to your son richard. knowing your son charles, think at p. 136what he would stay to keep him from your sight.”
he said deliberately, “i know my son charles even as i know myself. i am no censor, bradbury. charles would have kept this lad away from me, say you? fearing lest he commend himself to me and profit by it; take more at my death than by the law he must inherit. money and jewels—knowing on what i have my hand. what of it, bradbury? had i been charles; had i desired to keep my brother’s son out of my father’s sight—for such a reason—i would have done as charles has done. only, i was bolder in my day than charles. enough, what is all this to me?”
“yet charles has failed,” said mr. bradbury, grinning, “and you will profit by it, mr. craike. do you love charles?”
“you need not ask that, bradbury.”
“and you loved richard. you should favour richard’s son. alone—i said of you—alone, with thoughts—and terrors.”
“had the sea ever terror for me, bradbury, or peril, or the dark? what terrors now?”
“mr. craike, you are a man, and the unknown after death is terrible to men. except they have a faith that you have not. unhappily!”
“i have no faith, or fear.”
p. 137“oh, if you be prepared to sit alone in your last years,—face death alone,” mr. bradbury said earnestly, “i appeal still to what was human in you—love for your son richard. let your heart turn to richard’s son.”
“what purpose would you serve?”
mr. bradbury did not answer, but was taking snuff, and coldly regarding my uncle charles, who had drawn aside the curtain, and was standing in the doorway.
